The border guard who threw me out of China frustrated me immensely by behaving exactly as a border guard shouldn’t. He was courteous and sympathetic; he spoke excellent English; and he expressed absolutely no interest in my bribes. Before slinking away, I made a last pathetic effort to pay an on-the-spot fine. He offered this parting shot: “Money isn’t everything.” Touché, you uncorrupt, non-tourist-gouging bastard.
I knew before I reached the border that there might be trouble. I had a 90-day visa, which theoretically allowed me to stay in China until the middle of June. By so fixating on this June date, I had failed to notice until a few days too late that I was required to enter the country by March 17.
Figuring it would be better to be expelled from the border than to be expelled from an airport in the middle of the country, I adjusted my itinerary and biked straight in from Laos. Which, in retrospect, was a good call. The border officials were nothing if not sticklers for the rules. After seven days of mountainous biking, I hailed a chicken bus and rode for 23 hours straight back to Vientiane, where I had started.
I curse my stupidity, but already things have been set right. I’ve arranged a new visa and a flight to Kunming. I’ve got a box for my bike. The Big C beckons.
